


Power and Control

by 10redplums



Series: planes campaign fic [4]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Attempted Murder, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Magic, Magic Duels, Mutual Pining, Other, Resolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unwanted Suitor, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:01:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28478076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/10redplums/pseuds/10redplums
Summary: “You what,” they say.“I told them I already had a partner. I’m sorry! We weren’t a good fit for each other and they know it too. Please, Sam, it’s only the one time. Just meet them once and they’ll be convinced.”It is not only the one time, of course.
Series: planes campaign fic [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2044054
Kudos: 1
Collections: Banned Together Bingo 2020





	Power and Control

Sam is there on a delivery, a commissioned box of chocolates for Tryn, a red packet of birthday money for Vy, and a heckling for Ian, when Garfield pokes his head out of his office and calls them in. They receive shrugs and shakes of the head from the trio; whatever this is, he hasn’t told them about it. They ruffle Vy’s hair and go in.

He’s leaning against the front of the desk, worrying at his lip, when they come in, and at his gesture they close the door. They stand there, waiting for him to explain.

“Would you like to have dinner with me?”

Well, that’s not what they were expecting. They look away from his walls; he’s got some interesting new prints up and the bold colors are very nice. They didn’t see him as the saints in armor type. He asked them to dinner. 

“Ooh, Mister Garfield,” they murmur, splayed fingertips pressed to their chest, and he gives a flustered laugh. 

“It’s nothing untoward, I promise! It’s just- I don’t have anyone else to ask,” he says, which. Buckwild. They wish they could raise one eyebrow quizzically at him. As it is, they have to raise both. It does the job. “Please? One dinner. You don’t have to say yes to what I ask you. You can pick where we eat. It’s on me.”

“Garfield,” they say, moving to stand beside him so they don’t have to raise their voice, and he clams up. “It’s okay. You wouldn’t ask me to do something bad.” They gesture out with an open palm, and he gives them a relieved smile. “I’ll hear you out.” 

“Thank you so much,” he says, letting himself sag against the desk. There are the usual piles of papers, some forms to fill. The framed photo of his apprentices. The tiny wagon they built him. They nod at him and check their phone; they know approximately what time it is but the physical gesture lets them plan. 

“Ah,” they say, “there’s still some time before dinner.” 

“You can wait here!” he’s already swinging back behind his desk, and he gestures first at the seats in front of it and then the couch in the corner. “There’s a free desk outside, too, if you’d rather not…” 

“You’ll have to wake me up,” they say, heading over to the couch and taking out their notebooks, and he nods. 

“Of course, of course.”

In the end they take him to a restaurant they frequent often enough. Their chicken is average, but their rice and leche flan are very good. The story comes out over dessert. Garfield tries to bribe them with half his black sambo, but there was never a time they’d thought against hearing him out.

He’s a fairly powerful magician; anyone can know that from his success at hunting. He receives offers more often than he would like, but most of them accept his refusal with varying degrees of grace. This current one has not, and has in fact asked him several times now. It’s getting irritating.

“So you said you already had a partner,” they say, spoon in their mouth, leche flan melting on their tongue. He nods. “And they demanded proof?” He nods again. “Honestly, even if they  _ were _ a good conductor, they don’t sound very...” they gesture vaguely, and he gives them a beleaguered sigh to go with the nod. “I’m not very good at acting.”

“You don’t have to,” he says. “Honestly, you’ve already helped me out by letting me get it off my chest.” It wouldn’t be fair of him to put this on his students, they think. “I can ask someone else...” the end of it rises like a question, as he looks to them for their response. They finish off their leche flan and close their eyes.

“We’ll have to come up with a cover story, I think,” they say. He’s beaming, when they open their eyes, and they let him clasp their hand in both of his.

“Thank you,” he says, and they give him a wry grin. “I’ll compensate you, of course. I won’t- we don’t have to-”

“Only the look of a bonded pair,” they say, checking with him. He nods fervently. They watch; he startles, and then glances at their hands as Sam interlaces their fingers, and then he blushes. “We can hash out the boundaries of that. One problem, though.” They let go of his hand and sit back, interlacing their own fingers and looking at him. “I’m not really your conductor.”

“Don’t worry about that,” he says, catching a waiter’s eye and gesturing for the bill. “I’m strong enough to fake it, and besides they don’t really know me well enough to know if it’s changed.”

In probably the same way sharks can sense electricity, not that Sam knows firsthand because they’re not a shark, people can sense magic. It’s brighter when they’re actually using it, and the degree of perception varies, but magicians give off a faint haze even when they’re just shopping for groceries. Honestly, sometimes Sam would rather have the skin made of teeth.

Shark teeth, because the idea of skin made human teeth gives them hives. 

The next time they come in, the kids greet them as normal. Garfield is out. Tryn thrums with suppressed violence. Sam lets themself into his office as should be their right as his conductor; the doorknob warms to their touch and there’s the satisfying click of the lock opening. They lock the door behind themself again. 

They lie on his couch again. There’s some water damage on his ceiling. There’s a fan they don’t turn on; if they stay on the couch it won’t get too hot. They have a project they should be making drafts for.

They wake up to the door slamming and peek out; Garfield is there and covered in blood. Vy’s already vaulted over her desk and started fussing over him, and Tryn and Ian hover until he hands them a sack they take and hurry away with. Sam’s knees slam painfully on the floor as they drop to his side and, when Vy’s healing magic fades and his skin looks some semblance of normal, he lets them cup his cheek with their hand and lean in close. 

He lets them carry him to the couch and run their hands gently over him, the dried blood falling off him and sticking to their hands like iron filings to a magnet, and when he’s clean they hold their hands rigid and dust it all off into a trash can. He smiles at them, when they come back and kneel between his legs.

“Rethinking turning that conductor down?” They say, and he pets their hair before pulling them up to sit beside him. 

“Was nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“Mmm.” They pick at the blood left under their fingernails, and he cards a hand through their hair.

“Most of that wasn’t mine, I want you to know.”

“Mmm.”

He sighs and leans against them, relaxing, and they allow it. They move slowly, taking a knife out of their pocket, and carefully clean the blood out.

They’re woken up later by the door slamming again. Garfield jerks and stares out the door, and then groans and swears quietly against the skin of their neck. The lock clicks; a second later the door swings open. He takes their hand and interlaces their fingers.

“Garfield!” The person in the doorway is big and has a voice to match, and Sam breathes slowly and evenly. Garfield squeezes their hand. “I came to see if it was true!”

Sam shuts the knife and hides it under their thigh.

Garfield sighs and stands, putting a hand on their shoulder to keep them on the couch, and stands almost toe-to-toe with the intruder. They grin at him, undeterred, and then move past him to peer at Sam. Sam watches them, face and body still, breathing slowing further.

They are not unattractive, Sam supposes. Well-dressed. Strong-seeming magic, though they could just be peacocking for Garfield. Sam folds their hands in their lap and submits to being inspected. This is a guest. There is no reason to hold their neck rigid. Maybe they can open their mouth and let the person check their teeth. The person leans in further, and Sam tries not to lean back too obviously into the couch. What are they expecting to see?

“That’s quite enough,” Garfield says, coming between the two of them and gesturing the person away. “As you can see, I’ve made my choice. I’ve told you so enough times; I hope you’re satisfied.”

The person looks at him, and then at Sam again, and scoffs. “You’re wasted on them, you know. You’ll see.” Garfield scowls at them, Sam guesses from his balled fists, and they click their tongue and turn and go. 

The door slams, Sam wraps their arms around themself and sags into the couch, and Garfield sighs and throws himself down beside them.

“They’ll be convinced, he says,” Sam says with a soft laugh. Garfield rubs the side of his neck sheepishly and shakes his head, and they close their eyes and tip their head back to rest on the couch. “I thought they’d make us prove it right there.”

“I wouldn’t- I’d never-”

“Mmm.” They press themself against him briefly and his stuttered protests die out, and they sit back and squeeze themself. “I know you wouldn’t.” They breathe out. “I wonder if this means I have to go with you at work?”

“Absolutely not,” he says. “Too dangerous. You’re not trained for it,” he adds, when they turn their face to the outside, where his three hooligans are probably picking their work back up after eavesdropping. They nod and get off the couch, taking a lap around his office to release their grip on their lungs before coming back to him.

“Maybe you  _ should _ have asked someone else.” Someone with actual power, instead of them. They let him take their hand and pull them back to sit beside him on the couch.

“Hush,” he says. “There’s nothing wrong with you. And besides, they’ve seen you already. What do you always say? What’s done is done?” They laugh, and he relaxes. “Wait for me? I have paperwork, but after that- dinner?” They laugh again, and he nods and heads for his desk. They take off their shoes and pull their legs up to tuck into their skirt, and take their sketchbook out.

Soon enough it’s the holidays, and they’re leaving work too tired to go anywhere but straight home, much less Garfield’s bureau. They resolve to send him a message when they can remember to write, which means they’re radio silent for a while. He shows up instead, after one particularly long day, with a bouquet of flowers and a smile. Their coworkers rib them endlessly.

“What am I even supposed to do with these?” They say, laughing as they tuck themself into his side. 

“Press them?” he says. “Make potpourri?” They hold still and let him press a kiss to their cheek, and he leads them to his car. “Honestly, I just thought I wanted to give you flowers. I didn’t think this far.” They laugh harder and hold the bouquet in one arm, adjusting their bag. 

He doesn’t start the car just yet, leaning over to press a kiss to their neck that has their spine going still and the little hairs on the back of their neck standing up. “Are you free this weekend?” He murmurs into their skin. “I need you to be my conductor.” He gives them room, fiddling with various switches, as they arrange the bouquet on their lap and breathe. 

“I need to know what we’re doing,” they say, and he nods and starts the car. 

Anyone can share a portion of their power. Children on the playground. Friends taking a hike. Parents speaking gently to tantrumming children whose magic is going out of control. All they need is to link hands and open up a door. 

Garfield takes them a little way out of town, explaining. There’s a tower whose occupant is long dead, and there’s an artifact he’s been assigned to get from inside. It’s higher up than he’s ever been, and he’d like some help.

“You know I’m not actually your conductor, right? Or any good?” They say, trying to joke. He reaches out, eyes still on the road; his hand lands on their thigh and he gives them a reassuring squeeze.

“You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for,” he says. “I’ve seen you. We’ll be fine.” He risks a glance at them to smile. “You just need to hold my hand; I’ll do the rest. I won’t let you get hurt.”

The tower is a low squat thing pinning a small forest to the landscape. It makes itself known to them almost immediately, a pressure on their skin as Garfield parks the car hidden away and helps them out the passenger side. He gives them a smile and a reassuring squeeze; He leads them through the forest seemingly heedless of the dark, a king wherever he goes, and his hand is warm in theirs, calloused and a little dry. They secure their grip on Garfield’s hand, and he shoots them another smile and pulls them to walk closer to him.

The inside is dark, lit only by fading magic and what sunlight filters through the storm clouds and dirty windows. He takes them through rooms long since cleared of their contents, up steps with valleys worn into them by hundreds of footsteps, occasionally flashing in their vision as something or other hits his shield but doesn’t penetrate. The next few floors are the same way, the threats flashing bigger in their vision but no match for him, and Sam wonders if they’re even necessary; the only signs that anything is affecting him are his fingers cold around their hand and the disappearance of his smile. The door that feels like it’s keeping something significant explodes outward and the only sign is that he pushes them behind him, and when the dust dies down he keeps them close.

The tension lifts from his shoulders as he looks at the book on the pedestal at the center of the room and he scans the room for danger; whatever he sees, it satisfies him enough that he walks up to it, Sam in tow. The walls of the room remain solid, the wood of the floor supporting their weight without even a squeak.

Ghosts explode out of the walls. 

Garfield shoves Sam behind him, closer to the plinth as his head whips around trying to keep them all in his field of view. The ghosts close in slowly, pointing accusing fingers. The air grows damp and heavy in their lungs- the fear sits heavy in their gut- His hand shoots out and a few of them disappear, but they come thick and fast. They see him destroy more and more, his other hand tightening around theirs, and they see him weigh the ghosts- the artifact- them-

Garfield opens the door.

Once, Sam had shoved their laptop’s plug in badly. One prong had gone into the extension cord, and the other had been forced to the side. In tugging it out to remove it they’d touched the exposed prong; it had stung but it wasn’t too bad.

They imagine this is what it would be like if they’d wrapped their hand around the damn thing and then never let go.

Garfield’s power spears through their core and leaves them gasping, their hand locked around his as he laughs with a ferocity they’d never heard. White floods their vision- a gale clears the weight from their lungs- electricity rockets through their muscles- they feel like they could run a mile- they could tear this tower down if he asked-

They rip their hand out of his.

The walls are shot through now with crystalline shards. The ghosts are all gone. The two of them had moved through the room in their state, clearing it; the gale had slammed the windows open and now they hear thunder rumbling in the distance. Sam falls to their knees, chest heaving, and Garfield is right there, asking if they’re alright, a hand on their shoulder-

“ _Don’t touch me,_ ” they say, scrambling away. The stone is cool against their back. The wood is rough under their hands. The air is cold and smells of ozone and is pregnant between them as the tower creaks all around. 

They don’t know how long they stay there. The damp has seeped into the seat of their pants and the gap has disappeared where their fingertips end and the grain of the wood begins. Garfield gives them space and waits, and when empires have risen and fallen they start to breathe again, and they look at his face.

His brow is furrowed, but his hands are still on his lap. They can’t act like this, like they’ve never tasted his power before. Conductors don’t act like this. They take a deep breath, expression going blank, and hold their hand out to him, palm up. He relaxes, smiling, and- he crushes them to his chest, strong arms wrapping around them, and they let themself sink into his embrace.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I forgot- I forget myself. You weren’t ready for that much power.” His shirt smells like lavender, and they relax against him and allow him to pat their hair. “Are you alright?” They nod, and he sighs.

“Sorry,” they mutter, and he squeezes them.

“There’s nothing to forgive.”

“I yelled. I- it’s- not you. It’s.” How to explain the rush? The thrill? Their heart pounding like it wants to leap out of their chest into his hands? “It was just. A surprise? I’m. Okay. Everything’s fine.”

“Did I hurt you? It was too much, wasn’t it, I’m sorry.”

They sigh against him, moving their arms to wrap around his waist. “I’m fine,” they say. “It feels like I should be better than fine, even. Is that what you feel like all the time? It’s incredible.  _ You’re  _ incredible.” Disconnected from his magic as they are they still feel  _ powerful _ , like they’re full of light- like they could pull down the stars if he wanted them- They can’t imagine what it would be like to be  _ bonded  _ to him, to be tied to that magic and to have theirs serve as a counterpoint to his- They pull back just enough to give themself room to breathe, and they open their eyes to look at him.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, brushing their hair back from their face, and then he startles as if remembering where they are, and he looks away and clears his throat. “We- we should. Secure the artifact. I can do that- I think everything’s clear here. You wait here and catch your breath.” They nod, and he helps them sit against the wall. They lean against it and listen to him mutter to himself, walking around the room, and when he comes back to them he’s brandishing a bag triumphantly.

He helps them up, and back out of the tower. He stows the bag in the back and plays soft jazz; the window is cool against their temple and when they wake up they’ve passed through town proper and Garfield has a hand on their shoulder.

“I- I can take you to your place, of course,” he says, as they catch glimpses of his face from the lamps flashing past, “but I- I’d like to- to have you over? To keep an eye on you. In case you have a bad reaction to my magic.” They stare at him and he keeps his eyes on the road, and then they look back out the window to watch the city pass by.

“I didn’t bring pajamas,” they say. They’re listening for it, so they hear his sharp breath, and they close their eyes and relax back against the window.

“I- I can lend you some clothes!” he says. “I have a washing machine!” They nod, and he takes them to his home.

Anyone can open a door. The small bond allows magicians access to a fragment of each other’s power and control; the large bond allows magicians access to  _ all _ of it. It’s not a decision taken lightly. In tying their magics together the magicians put themselves always in each other’s awareness, a soft hum in the back of their mind. Most people are reluctant to give that much privacy up, on top of the shift in the level of power they’ve spent all their lives with, on top of the threat of the immense backlash of a broken bond, on top of the fear of being used as a living battery by a weak but ambitious magician. The door is smashed off its hinges, allowing the deluge instead of a trickle. The price of power is obtaining it.

After a taste of Garfield’s power, they can see why he’s reluctant to pick a conductor.

The winter holidays come and go, and the gift-buying rush wanes. Sam finds time and besides that finds more than just the dregs of their negligible power to enchant something for their favorite apprentices, and spends their nights doing so.

After that day in the tower and that night at Garfield’s house he hadn’t brought them anywhere else for work, or mentioned their role as his conductor at all, which is fine. They still eat together sometimes. They’re still welcome at his office.

The Festival of the Mage’s Bride comes and goes, and Garfield does his duty as a magician. In his case it’s in the form of another bouquet of flowers; they’d pressed the first bouquet and most of the subsequent ones. The ones he gives them this time are conjured, enormous blooms in fantastical colors that whisper to them of affection, of devotion, of- he grins at them sheepishly as they look away from the flowers to stare at him. Well, let it not be said that Garfield goes for half-measures. Sam, for their part, has carved him three modular shops for his role-playing games with Tryn, Ian, and Vy.

They give the trio hand-sized puppets of their characters: a charming duelist for Ian, a dramatic mage for Vy, and a cunning sneakthief for Tryn. Tryn threatens to throw it at their head for giving them gifts on Children’s Day, and Sam laughs as they retreat into Garfield’s office.

They eat together. They go on walks together, holding hands. Garfield does not ask them to conduct for him again.

Work keeps Garfield busy for a while, and in the meantime Sam is accosted on their way home.

“I challenge you to duel me for him,” they say, and Sam has to stare. How do they explain themself to this person. Who is this person. Who are they dueling for and why- Has Sam been read as flirting with someone at work? They don’t like anyone at work. The silence stretches on and Sam wants to sink into the ground; This person is waiting for a response and Sam has been standing there like a tit-

“I’m… sorry,” they say. “I think you have the wrong person?” The person visibly puffs up and walks closer to them- ah. Oh no. Oh no. Sam steps back. Personal space.

“Don’t joke around,” they say. “Garfield!” Ah. “ _ I’m _ supposed to be his conductor!”  _ Ah.  _ “Not-” They look Sam up and down with another disapproving sneer- “An underpowered whelp like  _ you. _ ”

Historically, there have been bonds between more than two magicians. Wars force all sorts of things, but sometimes people just trust their partner’s intentions and their own capabilities. The convenience of technology has made large bonds mostly unnecessary, bonds between three or four rare still, and in general they’re now thought of as something reserved for the ambitious and for writers. Regardless of the plausibility of such a bond, Sam remembers where they’ve seen this person before and is coming to understand why Garfield wouldn’t bond with them. 

Their alleged rival stands almost looming over them, puffed up with little sparks shooting off their body in a wholly unnecessary display of aggression. Sam stands, in their frumpy clothes and their stillness.

“No,” they say, not looking away. 

“What?”

“No,” they say, watching their rival bristle. “I don’t even know your name. And anyway, he chose me. I don’t have anything to prove to you.”

“It’s  _ Alistair! _ ” Ah. “And  _ I _ think you’re scared.  _ I  _ think you know you’re not worthy of him. I think you don’t have any power to speak of, and no control besides.” That- won’t do. Alistair knows nothing of their control.

“I love him,” they say, and find they can’t even laugh as they say it. “And besides that, he’s mine. I-”

“Shut  _ up! _ ”

The first bolt slams into Sam’s shoulder and they duck, which is why the second one shatters their hastily-thrown shield and hits their other shoulder instead of their chest. Alistair stalks toward them with a menacing grin and the next shield burns away under the next bolt even as Sam’s heart goes cold.

The next shield absorbs some of the bolt but enough makes it through to hurt, and even then they have to explode away what they took. The next bolt peters out as it tries to punch through layers of shields and Sam stalls for time and forces their breathing to slow. The next one explodes harmlessly into a shower of butterflies. The next one skids away and up at an angle into a firework. Alistair snarls at them but halts in their advance that had seemed until then impossible to stop, as the next three bolts slingshot around them to slam into the ground at their feet, and Sam allows the corner of their mouth to twitch up the tiniest bit. They wonder if nobody’s ever challenged Alistair like this, if even a token resistance is enough to shake them, but more likely they weren’t expecting Sam to have any control at all.

When Alistair twitches and hesitates further Sam conjures a little light, all flash, no heat, to circle themself as if waiting. They have the measure of Alistair, now. Sam’s almost tapped out but if they time it right they can siphon enough of Alistair’s next shot to hold in reserve-  _ there _ . A dozen sparks shoot out and explode loud and bright but ultimately harmless around Alistair’s feet but it’s enough. Alistair takes a step back and there’s an eternity where they just stare at each other, and then Alistair shoots one last bolt at Sam. It strikes a foot away, clearly a warning shot, but even the spray doesn’t get them.

“I’ll let you run away this time,” they say, already poised to go, and Sam nods, content to let them think they have this one. Sam backs away, and doesn’t look away until they’ve turned the corner.

It’s only when they’ve shut and locked the doors to their home, that they unclench their teeth and let themself curse, only when they’ve announced themself to Sol and Gaius that they let themself breathe. It hurts. Everything hurts, and besides that they’ve never felt so drained. 

Garfield comes back looking no worse for the wear, and Sam greets him after work with a bear hug and a laugh.

“I missed you,” they say, and as he smiles down at them from their position in their arms they laugh more and swing him around a little. He laughs, too, and puts a hand on their cheek.

“I missed you too,” he says. They revel in being able to hold him up like this for a while, content to stand there like the lovestruck fools they’re pretending to be, until it gets ridiculous and they have to put him down. “So, how’s my office?”

“You haven’t been there yet?” Sam says, laughing more, and they let him hustle them into his car.

“I wanted to see you first,” he says, kissing their knuckles and using their hand to guide them to him for a kiss on their cheek. They laugh awkwardly and he falters, and they relent with a soft sigh and lean into him and he brightens again. “I wanted to show you something! How do you feel about another tower? Tomorrow? You don’t have work on weekends, right?”

“I- okay,” they say, glancing at him and catching him looking, and the city goes by. 

“Oh, I- not as my conductor! I just- want to show you a tower. They’re quite beautiful,” he says, glancing at them, “when they’re not trying to kill you.”

They pack an overnight bag this time, because what he wants to show them is a five-hour drive away. He takes them over the mountain’s winding road and down to a cove; they talk about anything at all until Sam’s responses get shorter and shorter, until the gentle motions of the car rock them to sleep. 

He wakes them up right as the turn shows them the view he wanted, and it really is spectacular. The tower this time is built into the cliff and overlooks the beach, soaring high and delicate and shining in the midday light, a confection of scrolling curves and pastels bleached paler still by the sun and an endless array of windows. They feel him checking their reaction, but they can’t tear their eyes away.

They leave their things in the car for now and go up to it, their feet sinking into the soft sand, the surf coming up over their knees as they walk to the slick steps, and Garfield helps them up. Unlike the first tower with its dull drone and its quiescence this one sings softly with the wind and the waves, apparently content to stand abandoned by time.

He takes them through airy halls lined with carved waves and fantastic animals, over mother-of-pearl floors. He waits as they pause on a landing to wipe away their sweat. The song of the surf and the shore rises as they rise, into something bright and cheerful and lovely, and as they reach the top of the tower he takes their other hand and twirls them, laughing. He takes them around the room, humming along with them and making motes of light that swirl around them in a flight of fancy, and they let him dip them and pull them back up, their chest to his.

“Sam,” he says, looking at them, surrounded by light and the song of the tower and they see his eyes flick down and they think- what? And they stand, frozen, waiting for him to do something, say something; He releases them and steps back to a more decorous distance, and they get the last of their laughter out as the air chills them through their clothes. They smile at him and twirl themself, looking around. The salt dries on their skin.

In one direction they can see the small forest with the road they passed cutting through it; in the other direction they can see the next island over, past the strait. There’s a balcony all around the top, made of the same delicate swirls as the rest of the tower, and Sam stays away from it; Garfield walks in the direction of it, holding his hand out to them. They give him a nervous grin, wrapping their arms around themself.

“I won’t let you fall,” he says, still holding his hand out, and. They keep their eyes on him as they take his hand, as he leads them to the balcony, as their stomach lurches and their breath catches in their throat, and they hide their face in his chest. They hold on to him until they can unclench their hands from his shirt, and then they walk up to the balcony and put their hands on the railing. They take his hand and put that on the railing too, their pinkies almost touching, when he tries to put an arm around them.

The forest is lush and green, and the waters of the strait sparkle in the sun. From this high up the boats are no longer than their thumb, and the people heading in and out of the nearby hotel are tinier still. They watch all of this from what feels like the top of the world, the sunshine on their skin and the wind whipping through their hair and Garfield’s warmth beside them, and they- they ache, for something they can’t name. They let themself lie, for a moment. 

They turn to him, finally, when they've soaked up all the light and breeze and salt they can bear. He’s looking at them. They don’t know how long he’s been looking at them. They smile at him, and let their pinkies touch. “Thank you for showing me this.” 

“My pleasure,” he says. “Let me know when you want to go back down.” They nod, and savor the view a little more just for the heck of it. They fight the fear of the balcony crumbling under their hands. They fight the urge to hurl themself off for the pleasure of feeling themself fly. They fight the need to hold Garfield’s hand.

Eventually they go back down. The water comes up to their thighs, now, and they laugh as they hold each other and wade through it. Afterward they sit on one of the benches and Garfield helps them dry out their prostheses. They get their things from the car; Garfield checks them in as they gaze longingly at the swimming pool.

Their room has a view of the beach and the pool; outside there’s a little sitting area with fake grass and hanging chairs that look like they’d be nice to curl up in. There are fluffy blue-striped towels in their room, and kitschy framed prints, and two large beds parallel to the doors to the little balcony.

Sam throws their bag onto one of the chairs, and drops themself backwards onto the bed closer to the balcony with a laugh. It’s nice. Springy. Garfield puts his bag on the other bed, and they roll onto their side to watch him.

He’s laughing at their antics, and they wiggle on their back like a cat making themself comfortable to make him laugh more. They stretch, because the bed is nice, and their shirt rides up a little but they don’t care. They twist to look at him upside-down.

“There’s still some time before dinner,” they say. “Do you want to do anything?” He coughs into his fist and looks away, and walks past them to let the breeze in.

“I can think of a few things,” he says, and they laugh.

When Garfield wakes them up again it’s dark out; slowly shifting colored lights line the pool, and they see candles in bottles further out on the beach. They press their head to his side and whine that he should have let them sleep, and he laughs. “It’s time for dinner,” he says, and they jokingly grumble at him as they fix their clothes.

Dinner is nice. It’s a lot more comfortable, here where they don’t have to pretend or look over their shoulder. He tells them about work. About how the kids’ education is coming along. About some jewelry projects he’s working on in his spare time. He listens to them talk about game plots, and current projects. They get some wine.

He drops them on their bed, after, pleasantly warm, and ruffles their hair before leaving for the bathroom. They get up and lock the doors, and close the curtains.

When they’re ready for bed he’s sitting at the desk, bent over another notebook, and they come up behind him and put their chin on his shoulder. He squeaks, tickled, and they laugh. “Can’t that wait?” they say. “You came all this way. Can’t you relax?” They pull their hair back, behind them, so it doesn’t drip on his work.

“Let me just finish this,” he says, smiling, and they press their cheek against his to acknowledge him and pull away to sit on their bed. He stays like that for a while and then turns back to his work; Sam takes out their cards, and their crochet, and their music.

His hand on their shoulder wakes them up again; They’d put their hook and yarn in their lap a while ago and just let themself doze off. In their ears is a soft, far-off chant. The lights are off; the room is illuminated by the desk lamp turned away and the lights outside. They take out the earphones, soft and fuzzy. “You should just lie down,” he says. They blink at him, and nod just once. Their hand loosens its grip on his shirt and he pulls away a fraction of an inch. They put their things to the side; it really is a big bed. They take off their things.

They look at him settling down on his own bed and bite their lip, and when he looks at them they breathe out harshly and make their way over there with their cane. He’s there ready to catch them, and they do nothing so clumsy as fall. He sits up, and they sit on the edge of his bed.

“I-” they what? “I. Wanted to thank you again for bringing me here. The tower was very nice. Getting out of town was nice.”

“I’m glad you liked it,” he says, smiling at them. They nod again and he looks at them, and- and then he touches their hand. “We can share the bed, you know? It’s- you don’t have to-” he stops, and just looks at them.

They blink slowly at him, and wonder what he knows. If he knows. If he’s doing this to indulge them. This far from the city, they let themself pretend, and let him help them lie down. He scurries over to their bed and gets their pillows, and throws them on top of Sam and they have to laugh. They arrange them properly. He turns off the lamp and comes back, and throws himself on top of the bed with a  _ whump. _ They reach over and play with his hair. 

“What happened at the tower...” 

“I got caught up,” he says, and they nod.

“It’s fine,” they say. “Mage towers. They’re really… something, aren’t they?” He smiles at them and takes their hand, and presses their fingers to his lips.

“They’re something.”

“I don’t- it’s okay. Don’t worry about it.” They feel his mouth twist and they close their eyes for a long moment, and they breathe out.

“Sam,” he says, into the quiet night, and they hum to acknowledge him. “I was thinking… would it be so bad to be bonded to me?”

Their breath stills in their throat, and they take his hand. The sooner Alistair gives up, the sooner they can stop this. He’s getting too into it and forgetting Sam has no stamina to speak of.

“You don’t want me,” they say. “We- we wouldn’t be a good fit. You know this.”

“ _ Sam. _ ”

“I’m sorry- I’m sorry I let you think-” They press their cheek into the pillow. “Can we stop talking about this.”

He looks at them and swallows, and sighs and closes his eyes. “Alright,” he says. They let him take their hand as they force their breathing to still. “Just- let me say- I appreciate you pretending.”

They’re there for four more days, which is enough time to calm down their beating heart and pretend things are okay. They go kayaking. Garfield swims in the strait. They island-hop a little, and Sam watches Garfield swim around from the safety of the boat. They don’t climb the tower again. It’s a very slow four days, and then they’re over, and they make their way back to town.

The weather turns sultry, the days longer. Sam loves it for its gentleness on their body but not for just how much it makes them  _ sweat. _ Work becomes lighter, for the most part, and their boss spends their time coming up with new recipes for them to try, and the leftovers Sam gets to keep they share with the kids. 

Garfield continues to be sweet, taking them on short walks through the park and bringing them flowers occasionally. They do their best. The weeks pass, slow quiet day after slow quiet day.

Alistair marches in, past the protesting apprentices, waking up Sam curled up tight on the couch, and walks right up to Garfield’s desk. Garfield eyes them and hums acknowledgement. Sam holds themself very still, and doesn’t breathe, and doesn’t take their awareness off Alistair.

“I want to apologize,” they say, and Sam allows themself a huff of a laugh. “I want to take you and- and your partner to dinner.” They name a time and place; next weekend, at a tower Sam knows of. A towering thing of steel and glass, a modern marvel. They know it. They’ve been wanting to see it. It will be nice.

“I accept your apology,” Garfield says. “And your invitation. You’ll have to-” he pauses, and laughs. “You’ll have to apologize to Sam when they’re awake, I’m afraid. But I’ll let them know of your invitation. I have your number.” The way he says it, he has their number blocked. 

“Yeah, let- let them know.” There’s a pause, and then they hear Alistair walk back out. There’s a creak as Garfield leans back in his chair, and when they hear the outer door shut he laughs.

“I know you’re awake,” he says. They hum at him and wiggle around, and flip onto their back to look at him. “What do you think? Do you want to go?” They stretch, and see his eyes snap up to their face. They pull the end of their shirt back down.

“Back in college, I told a classmate I was allergic to the food they were offering to get out of accepting,” they say, by way of an answer. Alistair won’t try anything with Garfield around. They’re not that dumb. “Do you want to go? The tower will be nice.”

He gives them a smile, and nods. “I think seeing the tower will be nice.”

Sam nods back. “If nothing else, they have a nice museum.”

The rest of the week passes in a blur of gold paint, false pearls, and a thousand thousand tiny details. Garfield picks them up after work when it’s time, both of them dressed up nice. Well, him dressed up nice. Sam has a nice shawl over a button-up and slacks. He- he stares at them, as they come out, and he holds their cane as they fix their hair.

“S- something on my face?”

“Ah, no,” he says, clearing his throat and opening the passenger-side door. “You just- you look nice.”

“O-oh,” they say. “Thank you. You- you do too.” 

They talk about what they’d like to see in the tower when they get there. There’s a little museum area with puppets of the characters of a drama Garfield’s mother likes. Sam has been promised fish with gemstone eyes and coral scales. They’re both excited to see the damper at its core, Sam also for the mascot figurines featuring it.

They take their time; there’s an hour before they have to meet Alistair. There are other people around them; unlike the other towers this manmade edifice of gleaming steel and shining green glass sees daily use, partly as a tourist attraction, mostly as an office building. They stick close and wrap their shawl tighter around themself; Garfield’s hand is warm in theirs as they savor the sights. The cashier smiles at them as Sam tucks their little mascot figurines in their bag. 

There are the puppets, the fish, the intricately-carved stones. There is the damper, enormous and gleaming, clad in sparkling silver and tiered instead of a smooth ball like Sam expected. They allow Garfield to wrap an arm around their shoulder and hold them close as they drink in the sights.

Alistair is waiting for them outside the restaurant; they eye their linked hands and Garfield squeezes, and Sam forces themself to relax. 

“I’m so glad you two could come,” they say. “Come, come. You must be hungry.” They lead them to a table and the three of them are seated; at first they sit equidistant but at Alistair’s urging Sam moves closer to Garfield. “Don’t hold back on my account,” they say.

Dinner is nice. The food is lovely. The three of them sit there and talk about anything at all, surrounded by soft carpet and dark wood and red lacquer. Alistair apologizes profusely about their earlier behavior and looks ashamed and promises it will never happen again, really. Sam sits there, still, expression neutral, enjoying the tart flavor of their chicken. All around them is the murmur of other diners and the clink of tableware; outside, muffled by the glass, a storm rumbles.

Alistair is- nice. Polite. Chatty. Asks about Garfield’s apprentices, about Sam’s work. About how their magic feels. Talks about themself. They’re the youngest of four. Currently going through grad school. Discovered their magic at an early age. Sam does their best to look interested. Mango sago comes as dessert, sweet and cold and a welcome respite from emoting.

“Garfield, may I- Sam,” Alistair says. “I’d like to- I’d like to talk outside. I feel like- this room is still too public, isn’t it? I want to get to know you better.” Not waiting for a reply, they grab Sam’s hand and tug them gently to the glass double doors leading to the balcony. Sam’s heart goes cold. They send Garfield a glance and Alistair chatters away, seemingly oblivious, and they’re gone.

“Look,” Alistair says, outside.. “I’m really,  _ really  _ really sorry I attacked you that time. It was stupid of me.” Sam makes a noncommittal hum. “I got really… I kept thinking about it and I’d never wanted anything more, and I thought- with you out of the way maybe he’d- but enough about that. I wanted to apologize, and I hope you’ll forgive me. I want us to be friends, Sam.”

The two of them put their hands on the railing. The city is tiny below them, the lights of buildings diamond dust on a field of black velvet, the roads veins and arteries of gleaming gold. The air is chilly but not cold enough that Sam can see their breath in front of them. Does Alistair think they’re an idiot?

“I- I appreciate the effort, Alistair,” Sam says, finally looking at them. “You seem- nice. We can… be friends? I’m not a very exciting person, but you probably have other friends you can have exciting fun with.” Something touches their hand and they look down to see creeping rust with Alistair’s hand at the epicenter, and Alistair laughs.

“You really are an idiot, aren’t you?” Alistair says. “I tried to kill you and you  _ still _ came here without any plan or ward. That time you got away from me was just a fluke, I know that now. He deserves better than you.”

The safety wall  _ breaks- _

And Sam is falling-

A hundred of the tiniest wings sprout and slow down their fall by a fraction and it’s not enough, it’ll never be enough-

There are two screams from the top of the tower as they fall-

Garfield is leaping from the tower, and there are explosions behind him as he hurtles toward them  _ faster, _ and he’s grabbing their hands and-

“ _ I AM YOURS, _ ” he’s shouting over the rush, tears streaming from his eyes as the wind whips at his face, and oh,

_ Oh, _

They love him, don’t they?

And he loves them.

It’s the easiest thing.

They grasp his hands and they press the words into his mouth, and they slam into the ground with enough force to make a small crater but _ it doesn’t matter,  _ they love him and he is theirs and  _ oh, _ Garfield shines like the sun, and he’s kissing them through their tears. They clutch at him and laugh and laugh and laugh, and they kiss him back and he is beautiful and wonderful and  _ theirs. _

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry. You deserve- I wanted to court you properly. Not like this.”

“I would have said yes,” they let themself say. 

Garfield greets them at the door this time, a huge grin on his face. He takes the flowers they give him and they kiss him in full view of Vy, Ian, and Tryn, to their feigned chagrin, and they laugh and follow him into his office.


End file.
